


Harry Potter and the Horrific Reality of Fantastic War

by LordRosein



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Gay, M/M, Slash, Tragedy, Unfinished, Violence, Violent, WIP, War, Yaoi, in progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordRosein/pseuds/LordRosein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort has openly taken over the Ministry is is the Minister for Magic and is pursuing Mudblood wizards and witches with burning zealotry. The Dark Lord controls London and most of south England and Wales; the Resistance, organized by the Order of the Phoenix, holds Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, and most of Scotland. Numerous wizarding communities and broad swaths of Muggle territory are in dispute. As the Resistance struggles to take their country back from a tyrannical and genocidal madman, the international community waffles between inaction and doing nothing. The situation is perilous, maddening, and uncertain. Amid the madness of war, the characters struggle to cope with violence and loss while still living their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Harry Potter and the Horrific Reality of Fantastic War (HRFW)
> 
> Author: Avery Rosein
> 
> Rating: M
> 
> Genres: War, Tragedy, Action, Romance
> 
> Summary: This is set during the Second Wizarding War. Voldemort has openly taken over the Ministry is is the Minister for Magic and is pursuing Mudblood wizards and witches with burning zealotry. The Dark Lord controls London and most of south England and Wales; the Resistance, organized by the Order of the Phoenix, holds Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, and most of Scotland. Numerous wizarding communities and broad swaths of Muggle territory are in dispute. As the Resistance struggles to take their country back from a tyrannical and genocidal madman, the international community waffles between inaction and doing nothing.
> 
> Warnings: This story will be graphically and magically violent and include major character death. No one is safe - anyone can die at just about any time. Some drop dead with a flash of green light, but many of the deaths will be far more gruesome and drawn out than that. The situation is perilous, maddening, and uncertain. Amid the madness of war, the characters struggle to cope with violence and loss while still living their lives. Eventual warnings for slash pairings in future chapters. If any of this is not your glass of pumpkin juice, DO NOT READ. You have been warned. WIP

** The London Spell Exchange **

_Kingsley Shacklebolt_

Kingsley Shacklebolt popped into existence in the deep shadows of a rather grungy London alley that smelled strongly of cheap liquor and urine. He didn’t like his assignment. It was too risky. Somehow it didn’t help that he had planned and given himself this assignment. Since Dumbledore’s death, the Order of the Phoenix had been run by a council. You-Know-Who hadn’t been able to stay out of the spotlight for long. With his monstrous ego and flair for the dramatic, he couldn’t abide operating from the shadows for any substantial amount of time. He’d emerged with the very public mass slaughter of some four hundred Muggle-born witches and wizards and a manifesto safeguarding “true” wizarding _culture_ and _values_. Oddly, he didn’t mention blood, though it was clear that was what all this was really about.

The very next day He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named installed himself as Minister of Magic. The Order became the Resistance. They also began referring to You-Know-Who as the Dark Minister, which was less of a mouthful.

Kingsley glanced around furtively. The Ministry, Diagon Alley, Knockturn, Alley… all of Wizarding London, really, was firmly under the Purists’ control. He’d Apparated into a Muggle section of the city, but it was still extremely risky to be anywhere in  London these days. Death Eater and Ministry patrols were brutally efficient. The Resistance had its seat in the North. Hogwarts had never fallen and Hogsmeade was an overcrowded but relatively secure haven for refugees who weren’t willing to lick the black heel of the Dark Minister’s boot.

Kingsley felt the slimy chill slipping over his body as he cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself. He added a few protective charms before setting off toward the car park. It was a little under a mile from his Apparition point. He trusted his contact, he just didn’t trust his contact. At this hour, all the Muggles on the street seemed to have chugged an entire bottle of Ogden’s firewhiskey judging by their behavior. He probably could have walked undetected without the aid of any magic. Then again, the spells weren’t really in place for Muggles.

He bypassed the meager Muggle security on the towering parking structure with a cursory wave of his wand. He slipped under a thin post that seemed as if it wouldn’t deter even Muggle vehicles, striding up to the third storey. His eyes continued to dart around wildly, piercing the natural darkness to see a few remaining cars and dirty concrete. A middle aged witch emerged from behind a square concrete column. Her hair was mostly a dark brown, but she had grey wings pulled back over her ears. She was wearing plain black robes that were slightly too tight. Her code name was Goshawk, after the author of the Standard Book of Spells series. He was guessing she’d been a Ravenclaw, but it wasn’t terribly revealing. Then again, that was the point.

“The amulet is made from diamonds,” she said.

“They sparkle like ice under the midday sun,” Kingsley answered.

“There’s little point in indulging in these passwords,” the witch said tiredly, bloodshot eyes continuing to dart around the empty garage. Her tone carried a fatalistic cynicism. “If the meeting time and place were compromised, the password likely would be, too.”

The witch gave a flick of her wand and a plain brown leather briefcase came into being between them. There was a faint hazy field surrounding it – some sort of ward. Kingsley hadn’t seen it before. He supposed it must be the witch’s own signature spell. He hadn’t seen other Death Eaters or Ministry fighters using it. He also hadn’t made any progress in analyzing or disabling it.

“You have something for me as well, I believe,“ the witch prompted.

Kingsley reached into his robe and directed a bound sheaf of papers over to the witch’s outstretched hand. She flipped through it quickly – enough to get the gist, but not enough to pick up the details. The shimmering field dissipated and Kingsley quickly stepped forward to grab the briefcase. He clicked it open. True to form, she’d delivered. Twelve prophecies.

“Fletcher’s running Intelligence now,” the witch said, derisiveness creeping into her tone. “Too bad about Snape….”

“Too bad he was a murderous traitor?” Kingsley asked, his deep voice dangerous.

The witch looked at him, clearly not amused. “Yes. Too bad he was a murderous traitor. He was clever and resourceful. Well, Fletcher has had a few moments of… brilliance is too strong a word. Scattered insights, I guess. He’ll have to do.”

“I’ll pass along your supreme faith in him,” Kingsley said. He was a bit offended. He’d been working closely with Mundungus since well before Voldemort’s reappearance and didn’t care to hear him maligned.

“Leave ten minutes from now,” the witch instructed matter-of-factly. Any witches or wizards in London were suspicious, but groups all the moreso. She turned, papers clutched to her chest and climbed over the railing as if mounting a hippogriff sidesaddle and dropped down out of sight.

Kingsley resisted the temptation to look at the prophecies again. He didn’t actually know which ones they were or why the Resistance wanted them. That wasn’t his department. He looked at his watch, counting the minutes as the ticked by. Finally, he reached into his pocket, fingering a spare button he’d rigged as a Portkey. A few moments later, the garage spun and whirled away as he appeared… in a dingy cellar. He was supposed to be in a playground in Surrey.

“Mr. Shacklebolt, I believe.” A male voice came from behind a shimmering, shadowy screen. Kingsley tried to Disapparate and only to find himself completely blocked. That bitch had sold him out. “Don’t blame poor Eugenia. Oh, her real name is Eugenia, if it matters to you. She had nothing to do with this. In fact, she’s encountering her own… unpleasantness as we speak.”

Kingsley stood tense and unmoving. There was a wooden staircase about five meters behind him, several sets of chains against the craggy wall to his right, and everything in front of him was blocked off by the rippling curtain of shadow. He kept his ebony wand gripped tightly, but there was little he could add to the wards he’d put up when he’d Apparated into London until he knew more.

“Word is you were responsible for planning that strike in Mould-on-the-Wold.” The voice sounded eerily familiar, though toneless. There was no emotion or expression, but the timbre and character of the voice.

“Of course, the _legitimate_ Ministry held the territory, but we suffered losses, Mr. Shacklebolt.”

It couldn’t be. The voice was Remus Lupin’s. Lupin couldn’t have gone over. It was impossible. Kingsley wanted to blast away that magic curtain to see who was speaking. Remus was a werewolf; simple Polyjuice wouldn’t work for him. If it were him standing there…

“You may consider us heartless in our utilitarian pursuit of Wizarding good, but we do care about our own.”

Kingsley leapt backwards, causing the floor beneath him to erupt in a blast of earth and large cobblestones. The spray of dirt and rock cascaded out around him, deflected by his earlier wards as his wand moved in swift, sharp twists and turns, trying to undo whatever enchantment was separating the sides of the room. He’d never seen the spell before. He knew the split second spent casting Finite Incantatem would be wasted, but had to for thoroughness. As he began a more thorough disenchantment a volley of bright, neon purple lights shot through the rippling shadows toward him. The loosened floorstones rose up around him, intercepting the incoming curses. Shards of rock whirled around him like a stone hailstorm.

“I’ll happily give you the satisfaction of a face-to-face duel, Mr. Shacklebolt.” The shadow curtain seemed to fade slightly toward the center and Kingsley could make out the silhouette of a robed man. He steeled his stance, pointing his wand toward the other wizard. Abruptly, seven figures behind him dropped their disillusionment charms. “Or I’ll take a tactically valid option and distract you while my allies blast you into pieces.”

Seven Death Eaters dropped their Disillusionment Charms. Their robes and masks hid any real identifying features. Kingsley blasted the floor beneath him, the explosion filling the air with debris and throwing him through the air toward the corner with the staircase. Dust and smoke filled the room. Kingsley tried to take a step and his left leg crumpled, sending a black wave of pain up his body. He shifted all his weight to his right leg. He crouched as low as he could without putting pressure on his broken leg. He glanced back. Curses were still flying, the dust blurring them into hazy, watercolor comets. Someone – the clever one of the group – had set a whirlwind in the center of the room to clear it. Kingsley waved his wand to enchant the dust to multiply when hit by wind and grimaced as his leg throbbed.

He healed the break with the quickest spell in his arsenal and began running in a crouch toward the staircase. He could feel that it hadn’t healed properly, but he could move. There was time to make it pretty later.

The curses were blurred by the airborne particles. The usual harsh streaks of bright light were diffused, looking like the streaming tail of a comet painted in hazy watercolor. Trails of red, yellow, and a strangely peaceful shade of lilac lingered in the air as Kingsley glanced back. An aquamarine curse flew straight at him and burst into a bright of stars as it hit his defensive wards.  He leapt to the right. He tried to conjure some statues to act as cover and decoys, but the spell was blocked by the same ward keeping him from Disapparating.

_Work with what you have_ , he thought, a wave of the wand ripping up chunks of bedrock through the floor of the basement. He rolled to sit with his back against one. The dust helped to hide him, but he couldn’t see any of the Death Eaters… or Remus, if he were really there. Ducking, he sprinted over to another of the large boulders. He thought he could see the stairs. He couldn’t see anyone there, but it seemed impossible they’d leave it clear. He needed to get to the top of the stairs without using the stairs and Apparition was out. He looked at the boulder he’d just ripped from the earth and the inkling of a plan came to him. He’d prefer to let it form fully, but this constituted a crisis if anyone did. He’d go with the plan. Even if it did involve pachyderms….

With a wave of his wand, all the grey chunks of stone were transfigured to living and very angry rhinoceroses. The dust irritated their eyes, driving them into a fit of fury that seemed to involve rushing around madly. Kingsley sprinted not toward the staircase but toward the wall, his wand causing the wall to jut out to form ascending stone hand and footholds. He would be climbing next to the tallest part of the staircase but didn’t have to go anywhere near the predictable entrance.

Flashes of green bled through the dusty room like inkblots and the sound of stampeding rhinosceroses diminished to just a couple of sets of heavy footsteps. Kingsley leapt over to the platform at the top of the stairs to find… a featureless wall. He ran his hands along it, looking for a secret catch, feeling for a hidden door knob, probing for an enchantment. There!

He slashed a deep cut into the palm of his off hand and rapidly wiped blood against the stone. The wall faded away to a hallway extending about ten meters in each direction. Kingsley had just stepped out into the torchlight when he was struck in the back. Blisters erupted over every inch of his skin, causing him to buckle with pain. He rolled to the side, out of the way of the doorframe. As his shoulder hit the ground, an overwhelming wave of agony caused his vision to black but he clung persistently to consciousness.

This was beyond his skill to heal, but he did have an incantation that might get him through this.

“Negemus… sensum…” he wheezed, resorting to spoken magic due to the distraction of the pain. The clarity of the spell was immediate and almost as shocking as the pain had been. He stood, but had no real sense of his body. He couldn’t feel anything – the blisters, the wand in his hand, his robes, even the position or presence of his own body. He ran down the corridor, testing each door for enchantments. Most were too complex for him to disable quickly, but one was lightly warded. He broke through into a room with dark green walls and a large hazelwood table surrounded by chairs. Neither of the other doors out of the room had protections on them.

A glimmer of hope dared to emerge in the back of his mind. He stepped into a brightly lit hallway with plush blue carpet, cream coloured walls, and very large windows. Moonlight poured through them, giving everything a silvery tinge.

A bolt of jet black came flying toward him just as he focused his concentration on Disapparating.


	2. 2 - As the Seventh Month Dies

Chapter Two: As the Seventh Month Dies

Harry Potter

It was odd: Harry considered Hogwarts to be his home, but this was his first birthday he’d ever celebrated at the castle. Everyone kept apologizing for the fact that the celebration was so lackluster, but Harry had never had such a lively party. Even with the oppressive hush of the war in the background, he’d never had so many people present. The parties at the Burrow had always really been family affairs. Harry had never once had a birthday party with friends. Not everyone was there, of course. Dean and Seamus were in hiding somewhere, and there had been a few sympathizers even in Gryffindor - Katie Bell was the only one Harry really knew well. Still, there were more people celebrating him than he’d ever had before. There were people there he didn’t even know.

The spread was almost mundane. Magical candies and snacks were much more difficult to multiply, unlike ordinary supplies like flour and sugar. There was cake, cookies, and the like, but nary a chocolate frog or every flavor bean to be seen. There were only a dozen butterbeers Terry Boot had been hoarding for a special occasion. Justin Finch-Fletchley produced several bottles of gin, which none of the Purebloods had ever heard of before. Hermione had turned all the water into tonic before she’d been called away to the dungeons and everyone had gotten extremely sloshed. The pall of war made the celebration rather manic. There was a desperation to have fun, to forget, to escape.

Harry had slipped out once people started speaking louder than necessary and laughing harshly and abruptly. He didn’t know whether anyone had noticed by now, but certainly no one had been paying attention when he left. He’d wandered the castle. There were a few adult moving quickly and purposefully through the corridors, but they mostly ignored him. Remus had wished him a hurried happy birthday on his way down to the dungeons, but many of the witches and wizards about were former Ministry employees or just particularly competent sympathizers. The Order had become a sort of leadership council, though there had been a few additions since setting up.

Harry came to a stop on the covered bridge, leaning on his forearms and looking out over the grounds. The sun was setting, and the mountains were casting stark, beautiful shadows over the grounds. The lake looked as if it were made of orange and gold silk. The trees and grasses had a lovely, amber hue. Harry smiled faintly. He felt at home.

Just as his conscience was urging him to get back to his own party - it was fun, really - when he saw someone come stumbling through the gates. From the way he was walking, he was badly injured. Harry tapped the side of his glasses and muttered “Magnificare.” Suddenly, it was as if he were only yards away, looking at Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley Shacklebolt with some very, very ugly acid burns over his body and very, very tattered clothing.

Harry gave a harsh yell, running back toward the center of the castle. His trainers made a violent flapping sound as he ran. An older wizard he didn’t know started as he burst past. 

“Potter, what is all this ruckus?” Professor McGonagall demanded just as he was getting close to the Entrance Hall.

“Shacklebolt hurt,” was all Harry shouted, not breaking his stride.

He hadn’t been the only one to notice, it seemed. Moody and Hestia Jones were there helping Kingsley along - Hestia physically and Moody with faint magical muttering. McGonagall wasn’t far behind Harry.

“Potter, kindly go back to the dormitories,” McGonagall said as she caught up to the scene.

“I want to help!” Harry objected.

“As you are neither a Medi-witch nor a Healer, your assistance is not required at this time,” McGongall said.

Harry glowered, but she had a point. “At least take him to Pomfrey.”

“Madam Pomfrey and Healer Pye will decide on a course of treatment together, Potter, as they do with all their patients.”

Augustus Pye, a muggle born Healer with a fascination with muggle medicine, had joined up with the Resistance before Voldemort had even fully announced himself. He certainly had enthusiasm, but Harry would take Pomfrey’s care any day of the week. The Healer clearly thought she was only good for emptying bedpans. There was no shortage of injuries and it was all hands on deck, but Harry hated the way the man treated Madam Pomfrey. Not that she ever seemed to let it bother her. She was one of the least changed by the war, continuing to act with brisk efficiency, doing just what needed to be done.

“If you want to help, Potter, run and get Fletcher,” Moody growled between incantations.

Harry glowered and hesitated. He had said he wanted to help, but he also wanted to be there. Still, if Kingsley was going to give any information, Mundungus should be there. Harry nodded and set off sprinting again. When he’d first arrived, Mundungus had tried to filch a valuable statue from an abandoned hall in the castle. He’d emerged less one eyebrow and with a respect - or at least wariness - for Hogwart’s treasures. He rarely left the classroom that had been converted into his sort-of headquarters.

Harry came skidding to a halt and found himself more out of breath than he’d expected. 

“Well, that nearly always means hospital wing,” Mundungus said with a thick Cockney and heavy sigh. Harry nodded wordlessly. “You sit tight, Mr. Potter. I’ll see what I can’t find out.”

If it weren’t for Moody and his eye, Harry would skulk after in his Invisibility Cloak. He’d tried a couple times, all of them ending in out-and-out fights with the Auror. He was going mad and no one would tell him anything or let him do anything. He stalked back to the Hufflepuff dormitory where they’d stashed all the under-thirties. There were more than a few in and around Harry’s year, though there were also several older witches and wizards he hadn’t known well.

He kicked the barrel just past the kitchen’s fruit bowl picture angrily but precisely and it swung open. He ducked down and shook himself angrily. It took him a moment, taking in the balloons and food and drink and crowds, to remember the Common Room was still chock-a-bock full of people celebrating his birthday.

He gave a smile he was sure looked forced and unnatural, heading for Ernie MacMillan like an arrow. Ernie was sitting with Terry Boot and Susan Bones on a large, plump black-and-yellow armchair. Despite the influx of non-Hufflepuffs, the Common Room had stubbornly stuck to its decor, though it had expanded and multiplied the seating.

“Where’s Hannah?” Harry asked without preamble. Hannah had, apparently, been a rather good student, and had been pulled into a healing apprenticeship despite never formally taking her NEWTs.

“I… She was just here,” Susan Bones said, glancing around the room.

“What’s happened?” Hannah’s quiet voice came from behind him. He turned. Her blond hair, usually worn in plaits, was pulled back into a functional, severe bun. She looked older - even more than most.

“I need you to go to the Hospital Wing,” Harry said. Even if Moody did send her away, she had reason to be there and might be able to pick up something. “Keep your ears open.”

Hannah nodded without saying anymore and picked up her medi-bag. She gave a little wave to Ernie, Terry, and Susan before ducking out of the door into the castle. The split between proper adults and witches and wizards who were legally of age but were still treated as children had been established months ago. Everyone was used to Harry barking demands - or Hermione politely requesting them. Harry stood looking after her, at the closed door, humming with inactivity and energy.

“Should I get Hermione?” Terry asked.

“No,” Harry said with resignation and felt his whole body sag with release. “There’s no point until we know more.”

“Drink, Harry?” Harry took the gin and tonic in a milk glass with a small chip in the rim. He remembered from earlier that his other glass had the same chip. He supposed the glass that had been multiplied for the occasion had been chipped to begin with. He took a sip absently and set the drink down on a low, polished table. Glancing around, he could see the party had faltered.

“Wha happened?” asked one of the older students - Harry still couldn’t remember his name.

“Shacklebolt was hurt,” Harry said. It wasn’t a secret - or, if it was intended to be, it wasn’t one that could be kept long. “Mad Eye sent me away straight off. Maybe Hannah will pick up something useful. If not, there’s plenty to do.”

This wasn’t entirely true. It was pretty clear the older wizards and witches regarded them as children to be sheltered, not people who existed in the world and had a right to stand up for what was perhaps the most important conflict in magical history. If they were given missions, they were invariably safe ones, like getting supplies or helping set up or organize camps for the displaced. Everyone was trying to keep them well and firmly out of the action.

Harry almost wanted to thank Dolores Umbridge. If he hadn’t organized the DA earlier, he wouldn’t have been half as prepared as he was to take this on. Hermione did most of it, really. Harry gave little speeches and provided some direction, but she made everything happen. He didn’t even fully understand how the communication network she’d set up worked. His receiver was the very worn copy of Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland Hermione had given him fourth year. There was a timeline on page four and one of the entries would change its numbers to reflect coordinates. There was another page where, buried in a paragraph, a name might transmute into a contact. There was another page listing the location of Quidditch World Cups that was used for places. And half a dozen other passages that might magically change at any time to pass him a message. The books were all personalised and all managed by Hermione. 

They’d kept the name. Dumbledore’s Army just worked. He’d given his life to stand against Voldemort and even after, he was still the heart of the Resistance. He’d left a power vacuum that hadn’t really been properly filled by the Order. Ostensibly, they were a democratic council, but Moody tended to dominate security issues, Mundungus was halfway in charge of intelligence, and McGonagall usually got her way when it came to administrative and internal questions. Kingsley had been a sort of balancing key among the three of them and often acted as the swing vote.

Not that Harry was permitted to sit in on the meetings anymore. Since Dumbledore’s death, it had been proper adults only. Bill and Charlie were the youngest, and Harry was sure they only got in because they had been in before. Neither of them had leaked much, and none of that helpful.That was when Harry and Ron and Hermione had pieced together their own network. School chums, to start. Old DA members, and friends of old DA members. The connections had built and grown. He’d seen the lists, of course, but he hadn’t even met all of them face to face. It was odd, making decisions that affected people he’d never even seen. It made him uncomfortable, but the thought of Voldemort doing the same was exponentially worse.

Ron was actually rather good at the recruiting bit. Harry thought Ron was better than he was, though Ron always laughed that off. He was off in Ilkley at the moment, trying to get a couple of Ravenclaws into the fold. They were in hiding, so at least they weren’t with Voldemort’s Ministry.

Hermione was a positive madwoman. She took care of all of the communications throughout the network, set up magical protections over the DA’s operations, coordinated assignments, and kept the Order largely off their back by working with Emmeline Vance, who was in charge of some sort of research programme.

Harry couldn’t help worrying what might happen if Hermione was ever in danger. Everything would fall apart.

Kingsley was a bit like a grown up Hermione, apart from being a man, and black, and a Ravenclaw.

Hannah returned too quickly for comfort, her thin lips set into a taut line as she stepped into the common room. She smoothed her clothes with unconscious self-consciousness. She hesitated before coming over to Harry and shook her head silently.

"They sent you away?" Harry asked.

"No, Harry," Hannah said. "Kingsley didn't... didn't make it." She turned her head as she said this, not meeting his eyes as she delivered the news. Harry felt oddly unaffected by the news. He supposed he must have been expecting it on some level. 

"I see," he said. "Thanks, Hannah. I'm going to step out for a bit."


End file.
